What Women Want; What Women Need 05

The series "What Women Want; What Women Need" is reportage, not fiction. It involves more than a dozen persons and spans several decades. This Part 05 tells about four individuals, only one of whom was in an earlier installment.

Marti is a woman who grew up with a very jaded view of sex and members of the opposite sex. From an early age, Marti's mother had inculcated in her the notion that sex was odious and men were detestable. An overweight ugly duckling, none of the boys in her High School crowd had any interest in her. In the middle of her Senior year, something happened. Perhaps it was her metabolism. She didn't seem to eat less or exercise more. For whatever reason, her baby fat melted away (but not where it counted on a woman) and she had a killer body by the time she entered college. She avoided all college boys who wanted to get to know her better: by choice she did not date at all.

In her Junior year, Marty had her first, disappointing sexual encounter was with a gay, hetero-curious student named Edgar. Soon thereafter Marti survived a fate worse than death, and came to hate men. She exacted revenge upon the male of the species the only way she could reliably do so, through ritual emasculation: this led to her forcefully enslaving Roger, a graduate student.

Arthur, featured in Parts 01 and 02 of this series, is a Dominant who came to admire Marti and decided to cure her misandry by involuntarily enslaving her. In his mind he did this for her welfare, not just his benefit. She didn't agree with that assessment and fiercely fought to prevent her subjugation. In the end, though, she was helpless to avoid that fate.

This installment chronicles more from Arthur's life; explores his methods; considers the ethics of his behavior; and studies the lives of four young adults in a changing world.

Marti:

The Summer following my junior year at Connecticut College I went on a "dig" in Greece. Majoring in "Classical Studies," I read timeless works in their original Latin and Greek and studied Roman and Greek history, philosophy and culture. I and the other dorks in the program soaked in ancient wisdoms. That made us wise dorks.

I took a mildly-interesting archeology course that I used as a "hook" encouraging my parents to reward me for collegiate success with a three-week Summer excursion to Greece. Here students could engage in hands-on archeological practices, earning three college credits in the bargain. My greater interest lay in visiting an exotic land with party-minded students, but I didn't reveal that to my folks.

I was a Military brat. My father was career Coast Guard and had reached the rank one rung below Admiral. As a child I had lived in a series of locales with Coast Guard facilities: Hawaii; New Orleans; Governor's Island, NY; Cape May, NJ; and New London, CT.

My Dad was paid well, but with four kids to support (three of us in college at one time), money was tight. My Mom's family had bucks, and so when this opportunity for scholarly enrichment presented itself they helped out.

I had only recently escaped the tepid ranks of virginity. During Spring Break my junior year, aged 20, I arranged to spend time with a High School bud, Edgar. We had never dated, but palled around some as secondary school nerds. Edgar had attended Williams College, joined a fraternity and earned a wild reputation. (He famously landed a private plane on the arts quad of the Williams campus.) Yet he too was a virgin. And like me, Edgar was definitely ready to explore sexual intimacy.

We made candid, almost businesslike, plans over the phone, arranging to meet during the ten-day break from college. We wanted to experiment together to get beyond the sexual "book learning" and inexact peer tutelage to which we'd previously been limited. That way we could develop skill sets to avoid cratering out when one day we'd have sex with someone we cared for in a romantic way (or at least pretended to.)

We met three times during Spring Break, engaging in many and varied couplings. Our first rendezvous was a disaster, as we fumbled with condoms, hesitant and stilted foreplay, erratic timing, and faulty logistics. The unsatisfying end result: a bout of embarrassing jackrabbit intercourse. (Since this is not a comedic history, I spare the awkward details.) Because Edgar and I weren't romantically tethered, we were disappointed but not distraught; it was a setback, not a defeat. So we resumed our efforts the next day, and fared somewhat better. Our third tryst, while not spectular, was still fairly agreeable. That said, I didn't cum.

Edgar:

I was sexually inexperienced with women, and also ambivalent. (Marti did not know this.) My only previous sexual experiences were with male students, and these were never overtly acknowledged: "Boy, was I drunk last night" was a refrain that excused all manner of excess. I had known Marti for years, and while she was extremely attractive in any objective sense, I simply wasn't drawn to her physically.

Despite my limited interest in women, I gave the project my all. My, uh, equipment functioned fine in the way intended, but my passion for heterosexual sex was only mild. I have since embraced unabashed homosexuality, though for convention's sake I've been in a show marriage for years.

Marti:

Six weeks following my de-flowering with a fairly subdued Edgar, I found myself, 27 other students, and two professors in Delos, a small islet situated a few miles from Mykonos, Greece. There we were inculcated into the mind-numbing world of archeology on this working vacation. The emphasis was on "working" and by no means on comfort: humid days in the hot sun, sweaty grime-encrusted bodies on hands and knees bending over tediously with tiny brushes clearing away dried mud to uncover what might (but usually did not) turn out to be something significant. Nothing glamorous here: second-rate food and not a bathtub in sight.

Our night life wasn't much fun either. We hung out with the same drippy students and drank copious amounts of unchilled Retsina, a cheap local wine with hints of chalk, concrete dust and donkey dung. We female students fended off half-hearted advances from the local men, who in any event seemed more interested in one another than us. We were captives to, but not captivated by, the local music. Yawn.

All in all I learned valuable lessons about getting what you wish for and reading between the lines of travel brochures.

Our group lodged an inn with tiny single rooms featuring broken tile flooring and a bathroom down the hall. If the Four Seasons rates five stars, the Κατάλυμα in which we stayed rated roughly minus 14 stars. And that's rounding well up.

My next to last night I turned in early and gratefully. (The next day we would travel 95 miles over poor roads in a sweltering, dilapidated bus to reach a local airport for the first segment of our homeward return to civilization.)

Mercifully my room was quiet and, as usual, I slept very soundly.

I had a vivid dream, a sensual wet dream featuring explicit decent (well, actually indecent) sex; I didn't know my partner, but that hardly detracted from the pleasure. It was plain old missionary-position intercourse, but simple vanilla sex was just fine given my limited experience.

Then I slowly awakened. But, wait, I was still having sex. I was underneath a man who was pumping away with animal intensity. By now fully conscious, the realization hit me: far from having a dream about sex, what I was experiencing was sex initiated while I slept.

At first I didn't know who was fucking me in the dimly-lit room. Then I realized it was Professor T., one of the excursion's two faculty teachers and (HA!!) chaperones. Professor T. was a middle-aged, balding, slovenly, pigeon-toed, pot-bellied, near-sighted specimen of rampant male decrepitude with bad breath, worse teeth and the ugliest knees known to mankind. And there he was, doing his thing, pumping away. On me! In me!!

Well, I freaked out, screamed, hit and kicked him. I scurried to the tiny room's corner, huddling on the floor. Professor T. left unhurriedly, without explanation or excuse. Nice to know he could take a hint.

I was stunned. Neither of addressed the incident the next morning. I discussed it with no one until two days later, when my parents picked me up at New York's JFK Airport. They gave me all the support I could want and assisted me in seeking justice.

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Marti complained to her college. (Professor T. taught at a different school, located in Toronto.) Marti's college opened an "investigation" that was hampered by the distances involved and a lack of clear-cut procedure. (This was before Title IX regulations.) What happened to the man who ravished her? - Nothing, no action whatsoever: after all, there was no police report, no contemporaneous complaint, no witnesses, no evidence of forced penetration, etc.

Marti:

The episode passed, but was never behind me. Returning to school for my Senior year in September, my life had changed permanently and profoundly. My eyes were opened to the ever-present bane of brutal male toxicity: the biological impulse compelling men to spread their seed and propagate the species. This fervid instinct has continued over millennia relatively unconstrained though mankind no longer has a hunter-and-gatherer economy and men aren't supposed to take women by force.

Nowadays things are "civilized" - or so we are told - but men are still selfish and primitive brutes, especially as respects sex. And too often this male ideation translates into droit de seigneur for men in positions of authority.

Most men feel they aren't bound by society's sexual strictures: basically, because of their brutal sex drives and fucked-up phallocentric attitudes, they believe they are special.

Arthur:

I am special. . . I've known this for a long time, since I became sentient, learned to reason, and sallied forth as males of my species do.

My third day of Kindergarten, a Friday, saw me pulled out of class, summoned to the office of the Principal, Mr. R. My ashen-faced parents were present. Mr. R. said, "Arthur, we have a problem." I waited for details. "Miss C. (my Kindergarten teacher) says you disrupt the class, that you constantly correct her."

"But I only correct her when she's wrong," I explained nonchalantly.

He asked for an example and I readily provided one. Just the day before the teacher had held up a sprig of cotton and asked the kinder in the garten (with skulls full of mush, as Rush would say) why the cotton was white.

"Because they pour milk on it," a class clown-in-the-making responded.

"No, James, they do not pour milk on it. Who can tell me the answer?" she asked again. No one answered, so she gave her banal explanation: "It just is."

"Miss C.," I interrupted, loudly. "That's not right."

"That's not right, Arthur? Then what do you think the right answer is?" she asked.

"Well," I started tentatively, but picked up steam, "it has to do with wavelengths. Colors have different wavelengths. But white is not actually a color at all but it contains wavelengths of all the other colors. Just like black isn't really a color but the absence of any colors. Actual colors, like red and blue and yellow, have specific wavelengths."

Miss C. looked at me with horror, as if I had set the drapes on fire and then peed to extinguish the blaze. "Where did you hear such a thing?" she demanded.

"I read it," I told her. Now Miss C. had graduated from Montclair State College, reputed to be New Jersey's best teachers college - which as it turns out is not actually much of an accomplishment. Clearly the institution didn't provide its primary school teachers-to-be with rigorous scientific training.

"And where did you read this information about wave lengths?" Principal R. interrupted.

"In an encyclopedia," I politely answered. "My mother taught me the alphabet when I was three, then I starting figuring out words on my own and began reading."

"You actually read the encyclopedia," he stated. It was not a question but more like a challenge.

I nodded in affirmance.

"What else do you read?" he asked.

"Well, you know, books, newspapers, stuff like that," I informed him.

"You read the newspapers," again a statement not a question.

Another nod.

"And books, too," he asserted.

"Sure," I stated.

"What have you read in the newspapers lately?" Principal R. asked.

"Well, the President, Ronnie Reagan, has reduced taxes with support from his party and also the other party, the Democrats."

"Yes, the Democrats," the Principal affirmed. He paused then reached up to a bookshelf near his desk, pulling down and handing me a book: Stuart Little, by E.B. White, a slender illustrated volume. I told him I was familiar with the work. "Please turn to the Seventh Chapter and read out loud," he directed.

I complied. I was in the second paragraph when he stopped me.

"What do you think about the book?" he asked.

"Well, mice can't speak," I told him. This book is for little kids but obviously they shouldn't take it literally. I think it tells them not to feel bad about themselves and that their parents will always love them."

"Don't take literally," he said, looking at me as if I'd jumped onto his desk, lowered my pants, and shit ginger snaps onto his paperwork. "Well, Arthur, would you mind sitting outside with my secretary for a little bit?"

So I did. My parents stayed in the office with the Principal. Shortly thereafter Miss C., the cause of these problems, entered the outer office, ignored me and walked into the meeting. It lasted quite a while.

My teacher left and I was beckoned back to the inner office.

"Well, Arthur, your Kindergarten career has ended. Take off the rest of the day, and on Monday you'll start in the Mrs. S.'s Second Grade class."

So, what's the point of my disclosing the above background? Just this: I knew from a very early age that I was special. And please also understand this: as I matured I continued to progress intellectually and, more importantly, in terms of self-assurance, certitude and leadership propensity. These traits carried over to my relations with the fairer sex.

Earlier installments in this series, "What Women Want; What Women Need" parts 01 and 02, have previously been published on Literotica®, and if you're unfamiliar with them I ask you to double back to read them first before continuing with this story. Merely for background: prologue is important for understanding the arc of my life as respects women.

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Marti's return to college following her Hellenic mishap occasioned a sea change in her outlook, attitudes and goals. She switched her Major to "Gender, Sexuality and Women's Studies." She came to understand that the Classics she had studied were actually the problem, the origin of misogyny. The Latin word for "vagina" is cloaca, which literally means "sewer." Marti read this in Simone deBeauvoir's ground-breaking feminist tome "The Second Sex," which was part of her Women's Studies curriculum.

To change majors Marti had to spend an additional year in college to amass enough credits in the new field to graduate. So instead of one additional year, she had to take 60 more credits spanning two years. This she did with a vengeance, literally.

Courses included Intro to Women's Studies course; Sexual Assault and Violence Against Women; History of Women's Movements; Gendered Division of Labor and Space in Developing Countries; Buddhism and Gender; Gender in the History of Photography; Aspects of American History: Gender and U.S Imperialism; Reproductive Justice; Gender, Sexuality and Popular Culture; Documenting Queer Lives; Sociology of Sexuality: Institutions, Identities and Cultures; Feminism and Dance; Gender, Power and Bioethics in Literature; Dance, Music, Sex and Romance; and Race, Feminism and Resistance in Movements for Social Change.

And Marti's changes involved more than coursework: she left the drama club and College Republicans she'd been involved in - they were "patriarchal constructs" - and joined the Women's Center. She became immersed in feminist politics. She plunged herself into activities such as the campus Rape Crisis Hotline and helped organize We Own the Night rallies.

Marti moved well beyond "tame" feminist issues such as equal pay, and slogans such as "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle." She was radicalized, and embraced drastic views of fundamentalist feminists such as Catherine MacKinnon (who taught that pornography was a civil rights violation) and Andrea Dworkin (who espoused the view that marital intercourse was rape).

Within a year Marti had eschewed virtually all contact with male students; stopped shaving her legs and armpits; discontinued coloring her hair, trimming it very short; and become a regular at LGBTQ social events. In her final two terms at school she plunged impetuously into a passionate affair with Rachel, a Lesbian graduate student from Australia, and immediately experienced her first orgasm.

While Marti was initially the prey of the experienced older student, before long the tables had turned and Marti was very much the controlling partner. The point was soon reached when Marti refused to go down on Rachel. Not long after that, Marti began penetrating her partner with a strap-on phallus genitally and, soon thereafter, anally.

Marti graduated cum laude. She coldly ended the voyage into self-discovery that had been her relationship with Rachel and moved on to a graduate program at Columbia University in Manhattan. Here she pursued her Masters in Psychology with the goal of becoming a therapist. And without realizing it initially, she intended to acquire skills with which to punish members of the loathed male gender. She had never "outed" herself to family members, and her orientation evolved from bi-sexual to something like asexual.

Marti:

When I entered graduate school I made the decision to conform outwardly to society's expectations so I could begin a career and fulfill my goals. With this return to convention I groomed and dressed myself with allure, albeit tastefully. I shaved my legs and underarms once again; let my hair grow back out; and dyed it, my eyebrows and my waxed pussy hair a strawberry blonde hue that worked well with my coloration. Once again I was a knock-out. But my return to professional norms didn't lead to a rapprochement with men. Far from it: they remained the enemy.

In graduate school I participated in an awareness group for victims of sexual attacks. Given assurances of confidentiality I opened up, expressed my feelings, and interacted with like-minded women. I listened with great interest to those who got off on tormenting men. We understood implicitly that was their due. I began to realize that most men could be controlled because of the very sexual drives of theirs that oppress women. I became intrigued with the thought of learning from these aggressive women so I might gain at least a small measure of retributive justice against the male gender in general, given the harm that a particular shithead, Professor T., had caused me.

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One of Marti's graduate courses at Columbia was a Psych Department seminar in Deviant Sexual Practices, limited to eight students. They were divided into two study groups. Marti's had another woman, Melody, and two men, Roger and Paul. None of them had class in the period immediately following this Psych course, so the four often sat over coffee or tea during that time to discuss the latest topics.